Atique R.'s Blog

It was such a lovely

Monsoon morn,

Fervently poised to pen

My long awaited poem

On love and itsdelusion,

After such a longhiatus

In a dew drenchedsojourn;

But intuitionintertwined

With a pair of eyes

Slashed through my

Bleeding heart

Like every other dawn:

All the withered words

In the clouded vision,

Left my emptymanuscript

Looking so helplesslyforlorn,

With all my self-drawndelusion,

With the severed wings

Of all my flusteringimagination-

My zahir played a partthough,

Like in a desert,

With the mirage of anocean.      

Ileft my manuscript too,

Takingresort to the prosaic wanderings along the chameleon clouds over the ridges ofa mountain, feeling the droplets of rains passing through my unwingedimagination; but the shrouds never drizzled down. The dawns kept coming on andon… And then I came across a night with a moon…

It was such a lovely

Blooming moon,

Weaving beauties

With the wild bluepetals

Along a lonely

Secluded lawn;

Echoing couplets

Of a melancholic epic

Floating around

In the ashen blue sky

Of my raining heart.

But, they were allgone,

All on a sudden,

Like a spectrum

In a mid-summerillusion:

Swept away

By a November wind

From the north end.

AndI knew it’s time to head for the North, for the nomadic way in search of myzahir that I met once in a godforsaken island in one of my dreams; or may be ina devil-may-care inter-section with a parallel dimension. And it’s where theMeghbalika I chanced to have painted got stuck into my wayward imagination. Apilgrimatic expedition is all I need to stop my soul erosion or to find myselfback again in the downtown, may be by saying aloud all my untold stories,giving way to the new ones to be sewn. But, the zahir I lost my poem in is mylove with all its delusion:

Oh Sir, she smiledsometimes

For whatsoever reason

To stir up the wholePacific Ocean;

Which had nothing to dowith me-

But my heart somehowreached

At the centre of thewhirlpool

With the fins of mybefooling imagination. 

Then there was the kindof look:

Could have easilypierced through

The heart of anybohemian fellow

Like the arrows ofApollo;

Which I thought to bemeant for mine-

Which I thought to befrom Cupid

With a suddenly discoveredpassion.

And sometimes thosefireballs from the eyes:

I could easilyinterpret them to be

The outburst ofemotion;

But, never could Iimagine

The feelings I dreamtto be reciprocal

Were just thereflection

Mirrored by my ownobsession.

But I can feel the rainand feel her

Like the flow of amonsoon;

I can keep walking inthe drizzling

With a cup of coffee

And some freshly wovendreams,

And I feel her walkingby me

Like the flow of a flaming infatuation:

That’s how the zahirand the Esther

Keep coming intogether;

And I know both thedelusion

And the zahir have todisappear

For the love to painteven deeper;

For an unfinished poemto reach a harbour;

For all the blissfulpains to savour. 

But the love with all its delusion

Just want to glide onwith the lotus-eaters;      

With the zahir and itsobsession…

But, it’s time for thenomadic way,

It’s time to rend, andit’s time to sew:

Winters are long, andIthaca is still far away…

©Atique R.

*Thepoem is inspired by the  Paulo Coelho  novel, The Zahir.

I was born with all thetime of the world-

I’m one such ahappy-go-lucky poet;

I’ve bathed my body inthe sea,

All alone in thedarkness;

I’ve loved the coloredsunlight,

I’ve wandered aroundthe weary autumn field,

In the laps of greenlike a grasshopper.

I’ve seen a teenagegirl plucking yellow rhododendron:

Her red wet dressdraping her chest,

Echoing a melancholictune of a conch.

The sky in the morn isbloomed

By the flocks of swans:their new songs

Trigger the new dawns-

The pink waves of theriver talk a lot-

And they keep murmuringall along;

Yet their words arenever devoured by the winter fog.

Someone sitting in thepetals of a painted cloud,

Is listening toeverything-

Or no one is listeningat all;

Everything fades out inthe blank mist.

I too will be wiped outone day like a spectrum;

And yet I sit on thegreen grass; fall in love;

Wait in a solitary seclusionfor the sounds of footsteps,

With the yearnings ofher love; collect the wild plums-

I’m supposed to givethem to someone.

One can sit for hourson this soft grass,

Alone, with all suchdreams;

And when it will be thetime to sleep,

I will close myeyes. 

© Atique R.

It’s a translation ofthe Bengali poem, ‘Ei Prithibite Ami Obosor Niye Sudhu Asiachi,’ by Jibanananda Das.

If I get an eternallife,

If I can go on walkingalone

On the paths of earthforever,

I will watch how theleaves grow green;

I’ll see how they turnpale and go off the scene;

I’ll behold how the skybecomes white in the dawn,

And is drawn to duskwith a reddish hue on its chest,

Like the blood splashof a slain munia.

I’ll be able to meetthe stars, again and again;

I will see an unknowngirl going away

With her hair freedfrom a loosely locked bun:

Her face missing thecomely touch of twilight. 

If I really get a lifewithout an end,

If I can roam aroundthe roads of the world,

Alone, for eternity-fora time without bend-

I will see countlesstrams, buses and dust;

I’ll see bunches ofslums, huts, swampy lanes,

Broken chillums andurns;

I will see quarrelshere and there.

I’ll watch streetfights, squint eyes, rotten shrimps-

And countless otherthings,

I won’t be able to putinto words.

And still I won’t beable to see

A glimpse of you

In my eternal life,

Ever again.  

© Atique R.

It’s a translation of the Bengali poem, ‘OnontoJibon Jodi Pai Ami,’ by Jibanananda Das.

‘If I Were a Wild Swan’is a translated poem, with a slight change from the original one (Ami JodiHotam) by Jibanananda Das, the pioneer of the modern Bengali poetry, theuncrowned maestro of mind-stunning metaphors: my first love like millions ofBengali readers who like to read a couple of lines from a poem, sometimes in alonely leisure on a rainy day or on a moon blanched night or in a winter morn oranytime anywhere with a hot cup of tea or without. His works have got anundeniable impact on readers or poetry lovers, avid or nonchalant, who canneither feel nor deny that there is something to be indulged in, there isdefinitely something to be lost with an outpour felt deep inside in the life onthe other end of the reality.

Ami Jodi Hotam (If IWere) was translated into English by the poet himself and was published in the1945 anthology of Modern Bengali Poems. However; I have never had the opportunityto go through that version of the poem. But, I did dare, may be for my love forthe poet and for the imagery, to try my own version with a little change as Ididn’t feel like bringing along another swan to be shot down…

If I were a wild swan

In a quiet nest,

Deep inside a swamp bush,

Close to a wheat field,

By a calm, rainy river

By the end of a horizon;

On such a night of spring

With the moon rising above the cedar woods,

I would glide along the silvery crops in the sky,

Leaving behind the lure of the maddening smell

Of warm water of the marshes-

With my feathers feeling the touches of your wings;

My wings in the beats of your veins-

A million stars glowing the deep blue sky,

Like the golden flowers flaming the wheat field;

With the March Moon looking like a golden egg

In the green furry nest of maple grove.

The sound of a sudden gunshot:

My diagonal fall,

With the joy of ecstatic piston on my back,

And the songs of the north wind in mytone!

May be the second gunshot:

My stunned silence,

My peace.

There wouldn’t be the fractions of death anymore

Like the life we are dragging on…

There wouldn’t be any burden of despairs

With the unfulfillment of our little hopes,

There wouldn’t be any darkness, either;

If I were a wild swan,

By a calm, rainy river

By the end of a horizon,

Close to a wheat field…

© Atique R.

Can I borrow a couple of your moments,

Before the moon picks up its beaming glow?

Can I ask you something,

Before my winging words lose the courage

And find the floating mist in a hiding flow?

Though, a lot of things I’m dying to know,

But, a few or a couple will be just fine:

You’re so busy, and I’m in such a withering time.

All you need is to respond in just ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Sounds so simple, aint’t it? I guess so.

I’ve got so many questions getting spiralled,

Squeezing my heart: at least I feel that way.

Do you ever feel suffocated,

With thousands of questions in a boiling bay;

Tangled and the words severed off their wings,

Before trying to fly out off their death?

And that makes me feel just out of breath…

But, can you please tell me

Before the white dove

Sails past all the seas of lives;

Before a wandering soul

Walks past all his miles..?

Suppose, there is no oxygen issue;

But still, you are feeling out of breath for someone,

Someone keeping a deafening silence.

Have you ever experienced anything like this?

Anything that way, in a camouflaged patience?

Do you ever feel

Kind of taking in a breath of peace,

With a long sigh of relief,

Just after seeing someone online-

Like discovering an island

After a series of storm in a troubled sea-

After hours of impatient attempts

To feel someone’s virtual presence:

And still without texting any single word,

Sharing just nothing,

Nothing but a bunch of frozen sighs?

Unreachable, indeed, but there is still something.

Do you ever check your WhatsApp account

Just to see the login status of someone else?

Do you ever feel the craziness,

Making you feel like a bubble

With the burden of unfathomable emptiness?

Have you ever found your feelings got stuck

In a one-way ride to the moon?

I don’t know if you ever feel the way I feel;

For anyone, ever in yourdimensional zone?    

Have you ever been in a conversation

With someone, without uttering a single word,

For a soul laden with passion,

Breathing so hard to find a catharsis?

Do you believe anything like telekinesis:

Like sending the words from soul to the seas?

I wish I could send you my wingless words too;

Not the feelings, just words,

Millions of words,

As my feelings can hardly be painted with letters.

Have you ever talked to someone

Entirely in your imagination?

I call it dreamversation,

That I keep doing in my subconscious mind,

Or may be in my unconsciousness too,

With you: several times a day and at night

In my lonely leisure or whatever,

With the moon rising high

Or hiding somewhere,

With the monsoon rain

Drenching the soul of the earth

And of mine,

Or without it:

Without ever thinking the Meghbalika

I see in the canvas of my heart

Belongs to a parallel world,

And I’m just nowhere,

With all my dreamversations

Landing in a nothing-sphere.

©Atique R.

I planned it a long ago

To make a voyage with Death

Into a deep blue sea

To give away my breath;

And to brave the dreadful uncertainty,

With a farewell to life and its labyrinth:

May be in the twilight

With the splashes of melting gold

Into the relentless blue,

Ushering in a moon blanched night,

With a derailed drizzle in a dreamy light.

But on such a night

With all the shadowed dreams

Floating like a bunch of foamyclouds;

With all those unfinished jobs

Dwindling into the droplets ofmoon shrouds;

With all those meaninglesspromises

Hiding in the flow of enchantingjasmine;

With all those maddening nightbloomers

Under the beauty of a starry night-

Too beautiful to be real in afloating light,

With a nightingale and an aura of takinga flight…

But on such a night

After waking up from a beautifuldream

With an intense feeling for one more ride

Into the flow of an eternalstream;

With the blissful drops of a monsoonrain

After a long lingering summerpain,

I feel like walking alone,

Along a river in the rain,

With all my melting memories

Streaming down from the valley ofmy heart

Into the rivulets of a singing cloudburst…

On such a night

The ocean seems to be too far.

The relentless blue

Can be forgotten too

Like many other things for anunreal future.

On such a night

I feel like taking the short surrealsleep

To wake up to eternity.

Just a fraction of a second…

And the night looks so fairer tosurrender.

Just a random bohemian thunder…a death bythunder.

©Atique R.

Under the new Moon,

As I was flying high

Above the Mediterranean,

I happen to meet

An accident       

With a mountain

Of shrouding clouds

From heaven.

I lost the track

In the enchanting trail

Of a familiar smell

That I was mad at, once

A thousand years back.

No more blood;

No more sensation

In the radiation of warm flesh

I want now yet another reborn…

©AtiqueR.

I had a dream

With the mirage

Of a dark red ocean

Confined in

A many-layered den.

And with colors;

In so many shades

And variations,

Splashing in

Like a stream

With a bunch of frozen sighs.

Then I woke up

With the cold touch of

A cloud passing by;

As I was looking

Down from the sky

At my blood stained body,

Lying prostrate;

Dead enough to see

What the dream could signify.   

©AtiqueR.

Thehalf-eaten Moon

Wascrawling past the night

WhenI met my dandelion girl

Walkingalong the forbidden street

Withthe flickering shadows

Inthe shimmering light.

Andit was blood all around

Spreadingthe smell of Parisian perfume.

Amidstthe drizzle and a muffled sound

Ifound my smeared body

Lyingprostrate on the blood-soaked ground.

Thenmy eyes full of red flung open.

©Atique R.

My derailed dream

Was gliding past

The autumn blast

Over a pink-flowing stream.

Then the wings

Of chameleon colors

Got trapped in a whirl

And shoot the dream

Down, overlooking

A dandelion girl.

Now, in the piles of

My many layered vision

I keep searching that one dream

I lost my autumn in...

©AtiqueR.